Beyond Reminiscence
by snowdropsinwinter
Summary: This sort of thing did not happen. Not here in Fanelia, not to their Elyda, the little farmer’s valley at the edge of the local lavender fields. This was some kind of illusion, some trick of light. That could not be whimpers and moans coming from it.VXH
1. Too many memories

Disclaimer: I do not own Escaflowne and/or any stories and merchandise affiliated with it.

* * *

Patrick thought he saw _it_ on the moist, red soaked ground before anyone else did. He peered and shook his gnarly head in disbelief. This sort of thing did not happen. Not here in Fanelia, not to their Elyda, the little farmer's valley at the edge of the local lavender fields. Not to Angela, foolish headstrong Angela whom he had known since he was a boy. This was some kind of illusion, some trick of light. That could not be whimpers and moans coming from it. 

Perhaps he was not feeling well. Some older folks in the valley say that they imagined things. If the day was hot, if there had been too much sparkling wine the night before. But he had gone to bed early. He had not even drank in weeks. She had banned him from their cellar. Dear, good Eleanor had been feeding him disgusting fennel tea instead.

Patrick raised his arm to wipe his crumpled face and at the same time a cloud slid over the moon. It wasn't as clear as it had been before. He must indeed have been hallucinating. But now he must pull himself together. He had people to protect. If the valley wanted to be safe, it would not want a madman, someone crazed by old age and paranoia fancying the downfall of a senile friend.

"How are you coping, Pat?"

"Don't call me Pat, boy…" he hissed, leaning forward from his nervously stomping mare, "…unless ya want a good bit of spanking, you hear me, lad? Besides I'm good; but my poor Penny doesn't like wolves too well, now do you girl?"

"Why?" he shouted a bit farther away, twisting his sword into mangy, greasy fur.

"Why what?"

"I do not call Eleanor 'mother', either. Would you like me to say, 'dearest father' instead?" he added smirking.

"Will ya shut up Andreas. Concentrate, boy or ya gonna get your pretty head bit"

Patrick sighed and wiped his slick, hot face. Wisps of rust hair still stuck on his hollow shriveled cheeks. He was too old for this. But the prospect of tranquil retirement was as likely to be granted to him as any concession to his wife's little organization. Life was unjust. Obviously.

"I believe I got the last one, dearest father" announced his son loudly and flipped down his softly neighing, black stallion.

"Yeah…it seems so" Patrick agreed, slowly sliding down his old companion's soft and torn saddle. "Nice one, boy", he added, patting his son's shoulder as encouragingly as he could. This would be a cold, clammy night, with plenty of cleaning till the morning. Weeks before he bravely endured his creepy, prickling sunburned back and laboriously planted the soft, aromatic lavender bushes. He often wondered why he helped…it was the same shit every few weeks. But the devastated farmers liked it. And he would listen to their burdens while he sat next to their rotting barns, adding to their illusion that if the king did not listen to a traumatized single-mother in some forgotten valley, he would listen to an overworked, senile soldier of some superfluous troop. They liked that too.

"So, I will not have to endure a good beating then?" Andreas nudged him playfully.

"Will ya shut up, lad" he grumped. "We never raised our hands to ya or Lillian. Ya know that. It. Ain't. Funny. Boy!"

"God…Sorry, sorry!" Andreas grimaced insulted, "For peace's sake, I was just trying to lift you abysmal mood, father" he murmured and shook his head in exasperation, wiping his red, sticky hands on his pants carelessly.

"Whatever…" he paused "…don't worry, just start collecting the monsters as usual. Ya know the drill, right?"

Patrick sighed. He should know better. He had been unfair. The 'children' didn't like it if you offered them reprimands instead of advice; the farmers did not want you to assume they were in need of rescue. Officers did not like being greeted without a lavish parade, and his own family wanted to be thought of as strong fighters rather than simple civilians. Patrick had learned to wait carefully before he spoke.

And as he looked across the field he saw the next test of the day arriving: A brisk woman, wearing a cacophonous hat that only eccentrics or gypsies wore, a hat that did nothing for the face, but only magnified the ridiculous nature of its aging state. She was on her own and stopped to look at the reeking, bloody devastation before her.

"Holy Fuck!"

"Aahh" Patrick chuckled for the first time, very relieved "Well, I'm certainly glad that nothing can leave ya speechless old, gal!"

"Or with a clean mouth, Angela" shouted Andreas in good mood again, waving enthusiastically halfway through hauling an almost decapitated wolf to a sour stinking pile of carcass he had started.

"Watch it dear godson, or I'll come and clean up your's. Thoroughly." she shouted loudly and shook her long, scrawny finger admonishingly. "Holy, fucking shit, Patrick." she then moaned miserably, stomping towards him, "Not again. Not me, too. You know how much of my harvest will be gone because of this fucking mess?"

"I know, I know, Angela…It's a damn mess. Again." He stepped forward lay his hands around her wiry shoulders soothingly.

"Holy, damned, fucking shit, old boy" She shook her head and grimaced bitterly. "You and Andreas are not hurt are you?" she suddenly asked and jumped back from his callused hands, analyzing his physique anxiously.

"No, no…We're fine. Not a hair split, trust me" he grinned, "I'm so happy to see ya alright, though, old girl…"

"This is were you were working yesterday, Angela" interrupted Andreas darkly, with his hand over his mouth in shock. "Oh my God, it could have been you."

"Well, it wasn't, so what's the point of saying that?" Angela replied firmly, slightly confused.

"No, you don't understand" cried Andreas frantically "Come quick, both of you…Good God, what was she doing here?"

And then, for the first time, Patrick realized it was true. There _was_ a person. Not just a trick of the light. There was a faint sound of moaning and whimpering from where Andreas sat crouching numbly. The others had heard it too. He could not put it down to an old man's failing sanity. He began to tremble and hold on to Angela to support himself.

"Patrick, quick!" shouted Andreas, as Angela had already abruptly escaped his hand without a glance, and was clumsily whisking her heavy, flowery skirt through the soft, blood soaked ground. "There was woman beneath that wolf" he pointed in repulsion to a grimy animal next to him "…and she does not look well…"

"Let me, see Andreas" Angela said surprisingly calm, as she tried to step over three greasy, bloody carcasses, "Stupid, fucking devils, now…"Angela paused "Good God!" she breathed.

Patrick did not move his lips. He did not move at all, as he stood as if transfixed, watching the skeletal, delicate woman, who was sprawled unnaturally on the ground. She lay an inch deep amidst the reeking, muddy earth and the flowing pleats of her soft, ivory dress were ragged with scarlet stripes and brown scars like grotesque blots in the middle of a painting.

"Oh God Lord…look at her leg…that thing slashed it like a rack of meat" Angela cried out.

"Poor angel." Andreas whispered despondently and sighed. He cautiously leaned forward and gently wiped away a bright red trickle that had slid down her translucent throat. Patrick wondered why he did it…it was hardly her gravest hurt. But the girl's injuries disturbed Andreas, and as he stared numbly at her face, the long honey strands that even as they stuck to her hot and sweaty face, shone pale and white in the cool moonlight, she looked so much like her. That disturbed Andreas, too.

"Do you know her?" asked Andreas with his hand on her soft, hollow cheek.

_Yes, that's her. That's Nicola! _Patrick wanted to cry out, but he knew that such thoughts _really_ were in fact only the product of a broken heart and a senile mind. Besides he did not need to state the obvious. Their faces. They all were thinking the same thing…especially the poor boy.

"No, indeed, we all know everyone here" Patrick wiped his cold cheeks with his uniform's rough sleeve.

"It must be horrible for you and Andreas, Patrick" Angela whispered gravely, from the ground.

He felt tears come to his eyes. She was right. It was terrible for him. He had endured this before, he saw her sprawled lifeless on the ground, he saw her eyes, bleak and still, he saw her injuries, deep and irrevocable. He saw that he was too late that day, as well. Yes, it was horrible for him. He glanced at her piteously.

Her face was kind but she was practical, too. "Why don't you go and fetch a blanket, so Andreas can take her to your house? Mine is closer, but I need Eleanor's help."

It was the spur he needed. "You're right!" he said and began to walk away briskly. "I'm getting to old for this. To many memories, you see?" he suddenly shouted back apologetically.

"Yes, he _is_" whispered Andreas sadly to his father's retreating back as he watched Angela expertly wrap her peach shawl around the woman's injured leg.

"I just wonder, who she is. I mean what was she doing here all alone?"

"Visiting relatives, probably."

"Well, _whatever_ she was doing, it _shouldn't _have been on her own. I mean, what kind of pathetic_ ass _let's his wife travel alone during these times?" Angela seethed "Men…"

"Husband, you say? How do you…"

"Yes, dear boy…Goodness, a soldier like you really needs to get himself together, Andreas…you're _just_ like your father!" she sighed exasperated, tying the shawl's ends "Look at her ring finger…Anyway, I for one hope that one of your stinking, shitty friends over there…" she tilted her head meaningfully "ate his sorry behind and…"

"Yukari?" the woman suddenly breathed hoarsely, her throat almost dry and voice nearly imperceptible.

They both grew quite. Her eyes!

But Angela calmly leaned forward and caressed her cheek comfortingly. "Shhh…It's OK. It's all right now, love. Everything is good now. Everything is good…and no dear,not quite right, I am faraid. _I'm_ Angela and _this_" she touched his shoulder "is Andreas."

"You are safe."

"What?" she breathed.

"You are safe." Andreas repeated and caressed her bare arm carefully, afraid that like a delicate porcelain doll, she, too, would shatter beneath his fingers.

"No…"

"Yes, love. You are safe, dear. It's…"

"NO! Leave me alone!"

"We won't hurt you, dear..."

"Go away! Go away!" she moaned. "I don't want to be saved" She coughed loudly. Blood cruelly trickled down her sickly throat. "Leave me. Go away, just go! Please, go away! Just leave me…Go away…Go away!"

* * *

THANK YOU! 


	2. In Everyone and Everything

When Nicola was brought to the wind-swept monastery to be blessed, she wore an old robe that had belonged to her grandmother. Such lace was rarely seen in the unadorned, dusty temple of Elyda- it would have been more at home in Fanel's Royal Monastery, the gilded, gem-covered temple, twenty miles away.

The chubby monk did say to someone that this was a baby girl not likely to be lacking in anything, considering the life she was born into.

But old monks do not know everything.

When Nicola was eighteen years old, and just out of school, there were great many things lacking in her life: such as any plan of what she was going to do; such as any freedom to go away and do it.

They needed someone at the vineyard and her siblings were in school, so the delicate beauty would be the one to stay.

Nicola also thought she needed a man friend, but Elyda was not the place to find one.

It wasn't even a question of wit or the lack of it. They were simply not rich socialites-people of class and distinction. If they had been, there might have been a society Nicola could have moved and made connections in. Ultimately, Nicola and the rest of them were not well enough off, to fit into any pattern that enabled freedom and success.

Life was pitiless. Clearly.

And so Eleanor wondered, as she had wondered countless nights before, about the past: Was it just the argument about responsibility and propriety that had driven Nicola away? Was it the need to live independently, away from the old ways? If she had to do it all over again, would she be more strict and commanding, deny her daughter's wish to prove her worth the one and only way she could find?

But then…these families here were doing all that and yet they were still digging grim graves far fresher than Nicola's, amidst their purple fields. She had seen that in many of their lives.

Eleanor sighed.

_Democracy instead of Tyranny_ the worn-out linen spelled before her. She looked at the long banner on her scratched oak table and smiled warily.

"We did everything right. Everything!" she breathed bleakly and shook her head, glossy metallic strands sliding from her tousled braid. With her slight finger outstretched, she cautiously grazed the lettering. It was dry. "There was nothing we could have done" Eleanor added, her thin face hurt and tired.

Now, there _was_ nothing she could have done then. There could hardly be anyone in Elyda who would answer that remark by saying that they really and truly thought that the pair who ran the sloping vineyard could have prevented the tragedy from happening. Eleanor knew that. Days before wandering merchants again told of the gory slaughter of yet another Fanelian troop. They died pitilessly-not because they were clumsy or dim but because they, just like brave Nicola, lacked weapons that actually worked and doctors whose understanding covered more than just what herbs prevent indigestion. _Those_ were tragedies she could prevent. Eleanor knew that, too.

"You better put that away, before father comes home" a soft voice shook her out of her reverie "You know, how he can't stand your 'Revolutionary Nonsense" as he likes to put it."

Eleanor turned her head to see Lillian stepping down the winding, cherry staircase on her right with a candle in her hand. She watched her daughter fight with the burning stick clumsily and smiled in earnest.

" But love, you see, I also know" Eleanor said and faced her daughter with a lingering tinge of bemusement "that his opinions on that matter are of no consequence to me."

" Oh, I knew it! I just knew you would say that!" she replied with a quick shrewd, grin."I just thought, I'll give you a reminder. Besides, you" she pointed her finger admonishingly "my dear mother, are going to go blind with that little bit of light" she added with a crooked smirk as she strolled past the intimidating, old-fashioned family portraits.

"Urgh…I hate these old bats. We should put them to sleep. Permanently" she continued and stepped next to her mother. She gave Eleanor a quick peck and looked at the linen with interest. "Democracy instead of Tyranny" she read quietly. "Not very creative, dear mother" Lillian teased mischievously, her soft features full of mirth.

Eleanor however frowned thoughtfully.

"But of course" Lillian obliviously continued with enthusiasm "as long as it helps you kick King Van's big ass off his oh-so wonderful throne" she grinned and inelegantly shoved a strong dining chair from beneath the linen's overhanging flaps "it's more than good. Right?"

But her mother just sighed. Then she unexpectedly shook her head with oddly dull, distant eyes.

Lillian, in turn, patiently, albeit a bit worriedly, waited for her mother's overdue response. And so, unsure of what to do, she quietly she sat down and stared at Eleanor expectantly: When from across the table, just next to the front door, a frosty summer wind hushed in through the wide, arched window, it flapped Eleanor's long hair back, like tatters of gray silk beneath the ocean's breeze. 

'Even after all these _things_' Lillian thought 'and all these years, she still is _so_ beautiful."

Just then, she remembered the village's children and almost chuckled. It was her mother's habit: On heavy, humid days, when she found them plotting mischief near the vineyard, she always gave the chubby monsters a glass of cool, tangy grape juice. Often their hands were already stained purple, but Eleanor rarely said anything- to her, they were little more than babies after all.  
During more than one occasion Lillian had watched them, their big glasses clutched clumsily in their short hands, talking together in ridiculously serious voices. With great, somber authority they would tell each other how they knew for a fact that Eleanor was not from around here. They had heard their parents talking. Without a doubt, Eleanor was not even _human_. She was the illegitimate child of an _elf_ and a _mermaid_ and had come to live here in secret-shunned from the strange wood elves and the proud mermen living in the ocean. There could be no other explanation. How else could someone look like _that_?

Unlike the children, Lillian did know for a fact that, even though her mother had remained aloof to it then, just as she had in the present, Eleanor had been quite a sensation as a young woman. Even old age had stolen strangely little of her feature's delicacy. By some stroke of luck, only Nicola had received those ethereal looks, while she and her brother, even though very gorgeous, had inherited very little of her mother's curious charms and had instead been gifted with much more earthy qualities.

Lillian continued to look at her mother unwaveringly. Then she rubbed her temples.

"Mother" she finally breathed tiredly "you cannot turn this into your redemption" she said devoid of her usual childlike glee, her face oddly sad and weary.

"You don't understand" Eleanor whispered simply. She smiled a patient, yet bitter smile.

Perhaps her young daughter _already_ carried more knowledge and bitterness than Eleanor dared to think. But as she allowed her eyes to wander beyond her window, towards the dusty, glorious speck of land that was inconsequential to the world, but meant everything to her, she ardently wished that her daughter would _never _understand:

Eleanor loved the feeling of cool, slick wine sliding down her throat. She loved how the thick, juicy grapes, burst open beneath her feet during harvest time and stained her toes spectacularly purple. She loved the two lushes, green hills that sloped toward her cottage; where every year tiny, excruciatingly sour dots ripened into tart, sweet grapes. And how at midnight the cool, emerald mustard flowers, which grew uninhibitedly between the rows, shimmered beautifully beneath the warm summer breeze.

Yes, she was very aware of her passion. But ever since Nicola's death she was even more aware that everything dear could disappear in mere moments. That ill-timed epiphany, as Eleanor liked to call it, had not prompted a haphazard quest for redemption or vengeance, as her family surely thought, but a struggle for at least a proximity of justice and security. After all, at any moment, the king's elusive vagabonds could storm into the village and scratch their dooming marks into their livelihood as a forced premonition of the king's eternal divinity. A necessary intervention, King Van's cabinet would have the newspapers call it then; to rid the countryside from lawless criminals who wanted to overthrow the king in favor of anarchy and chaos. Surely, the people would understand why it had to be done, they would ask. And even though Eleanor doubted that any of those arrested and killed even understood what 'anarchy' meant, Fanelia's citizens would nod in silent approval-out of sheer ignorance or fear.

She was no fool. Eleanor knew very well that truthfully, it was too late for her. She would gain very little. After all democracy, this great, fundamental all-encompassing change, took years and years to implement and grow. Years and years she did not have. Glazing sideways at Lillian, who was thoughtfully leaning on her elbow, frowning at the banner's matte lettering with a serious, semi-conscious stare, Eleanor thought that it was too late for Lillian, too. She wished that she could have offered her children the ideal world, the paradisiacal utopia, every mother whimsically, foolishly dreamed of, but circumstances had not been mindful of her wants.

'But my grandchildren!' she thought fiercely. Yes, there was _much_ hope for them. Of course, Lillian was young-yet hardly a child anymore, though Eleanor was wearily cautious to admit it. Neither was Andreas. Soon they would find someone worthy of their affections and one thing would lead to another. Such things often did. They would be engaged. Married. Expecting. Parents.

For their sons and daughters, she wished a different life: A world beyond cruelty. Beyond neglect. Beyond injustice. And this strange, unjust, deceitful, jumbled life would disappear-

_Beyond reminiscence_.

Strangely enough, just then, her eyes fell on the wrinkled tree outside their window. 'What cruel ways, memories have!" she thought ruefully. A part of her bitterly wanted to laugh.

It was a gnarly orange tree-the perpetual resident of the vineyard. Eleanor was sure that its life must have begun even before her great-grandmother's did. It was here, she could see it even now, where beneath the rustling shade of the tree's thick, twisted arms, Nicola had unexpectedly appeared that scalding noon. Patrick had been in the kitchen, cooking supper and she had been beneath the staircase, looking through books, so none of them had seen Nicola climbing up the sandy hill towards the cottage. To their utter surprise, she was with a foreign soldier-a handsome man, a few years her senior.

They were together, Nicola had quickly explained; _engaged_ to be exact. Both had met during a diplomatic conference in Asturia. He was accompanying a young duke, a protégé, he told them, very close to his heart; and she was guarding a Fanelian diplomat-though Eleanor thought, 'playing human shield for a fat, pompous, lazy idiot with the intellectual finesse of an ant', would have been a much better description.

Eleanor knew that Nicola had not suddenly come back, to ask permission-she was always too willful and headstrong for that. But regardless, she was still a child, _their child_, and wanted their blessing. Eleanor very well remembered the way that boy, well _man_, had calmly grasped Nicola's slender wrist with his long, callused fingers and slowly kissed her cold palm; when she had waited for their reaction, stiff and strained in her crisp, linear uniform. He seemed enamored. That much was obvious. And Eleanor had been happy that in the end, by choosing this unorthodox path of life, Nicola had found in her fiancé another thing, she had been looking for.

"He won't like this, either" she said slowly, with a far-away look. "I doubt he approves." 

"I'm sorry" Lillian said squinting "Who won't like what?" she asked sitting up straight. 

"_Allen_. The banner" she replied, tilting her head down meaningfully. "He would rather have me, well 'us' probably, not get involved in all this." 

"Allen" she breathed thoughtfully "I completely forgot that he is coming" Lillian shook her head "He is, isn't he?" 

"Yes" she said "On the twenty-eight. Like every year" she went on, rubbing the corner of her eyes with her thumb "To visit her grave, like he always does" she paused "and maybe always will." 

"He really loved Nicola. Truly and madly, didn't he?" 

"He would have been a fool not to" Eleanor replied with a wistful smile. Sometimes Nicola's memories were so alive, she made the mistake of thinking that so was she. And the way Lillian was slumped on that chair, with her elbows on her boyish pants and her heavy, hazel hair wiping around her cheeks, she looked so much like her sister just then. 

'You are everywhere, my love. In everyone and everything," she thought 'And you keep haunting me, them' she looked at Lillian 'and your poor lover. He misses you so much, dear' she suddenly felt like crying 'but I am sure, you know. I am sure you do.' 

"It's quite cold tonight, isn't it?" Lillian said abruptly. Just then, to prove her point, a raw gust of wind whirled in and flapped half of the banner over itself. 

"Yes" gasped Eleanor, blinking hard in an attempt to quickly force the glassines away from her eyes. "Would you close the window, please" she went on as firmly as she could. 'Ghosts!' she thought tiredly.

"Oh look!" Lillian suddenly shouted from the window "Andreas and father are riding up the hill" she exclaimed happily "Isn't it a bit early though?" she went on, turning around.

Eleanor frowned. The moon was high and there were still a few hours left until sunrise, so they were indeed back very early tonight. She hurriedly fisted her skirt in her hands and rushed around the table, to the window.

"There!" Lillian pointed down towards the left. "How strange" she frowned "Angela is riding with father!"

"_Angela_?"

"Yes, just look. There!" she told Eleanor "And I think Andreas is carrying something."

With hands pushing her heavily against the narrow windowsill, Eleanor squinted "Good god" she suddenly blanched "He's carrying a _girl_...by the gods, he is!"

* * *

Andreas just knew his mother would not take their arrival too well. But when he had watched her stumble out of the door, her swiping skirt and heavy steps, surging up clouds of dust from the parched earth, his stomach clenched. Desperately he hoped that maybe Eleanor would not recognize the strange resemblance. 

Against his luck, she _did_. Wordlessly she stopped before their horses-her chest heaving, her cheeks red. They did not even have a chance to say anything. When she saw the girl resting lifeless against Andreas' chest, she shook and trembled. Aghast she took a step back.

Thankfully, Angela was quick. More swift and agile than Andreas would have presumed of a woman her age, his godmother jumped off Patrick's horse "Love, don't think that!" she had said holding Eleanor's face between her hands "It's not her! It's not her!" she had chanted, resting her wrinkled forehead against Eleanor's. Carefully she rubbed Eleanor's arms. "We both know that it can't be Nicola. We buried her, love. _It's not her_."

Now, Andreas was sprawled on a chair at the head of the table. His back was hot from the fire burning behind him, but he still felt cold and clammy.

"This is just awful, you know" his sister breathed from the chair next to him.

"It's _monstrous_, believe me" Andreas said, rubbing his forehead.

"Yes, I was wondering would I be any use to mother and Angela upstairs, but I don't suppose…?"

"Lillian, you're not a healer, you're not going to stitch together leg up there in that bedroom" Andreas protested.

"But you know, at least I could do_ something_. It certainly beats sitting around here with you and dad."

"Lillian, get real. What could you do, tell that poor woman through telepathy that she _just_ might not die?"

Lillian flushed darkly. Her father came to her rescue. "I know, Angela isn't a full-time healer, but a farmer. Still, if ya would have had a bit more training with dear Angela, I'd say ya're invaluable. But ya would be such little help now that I think we're all better off being down here, out of people's way."

Andreas agreed. He was looking at his glass of wine "I don't even think there is much to do, but wait and hope" he said kindly. "Here" he pushed his glass towards Lillian "Have some of this. It'll calm you."

"Thanks" she whispered unhappily and drowned the glass in one gulp.

THANK YOU!

GREAT, GREAT, GREAT MANY THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO READ AND ESPECIALLY TO

Mystical Myst, serenityrain2233, Syolen, Valinor's Twilight, Fae Rain, Renleek, aefrae21, Eternal fire1, Lady Lolita, bluetreeleaves, sqeekers and The Sometime Scribbler

FOR REVIEWING!

The next chaper will be all about the injured girl, whose identity many, I am sure, already know.


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